No Lack of Love
by Yearning Flush
Summary: He turned the bike sharply and peeled out in the direction they'd come from, kicking up a shower of gravel and a heavy cloud of dust behind them. The unmistakable sound of a shot rang out. Carol shrieked reflexively and ducked her head, pressing her face into the ash colored wings of Daryl's vest (proceed with caution, smut ahead)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note #1**: The parts of this story alternate between Daryl's past with his brother Merle and his present day exchanges with Carol. Some people may find this approach disjointed, but I thought it would be interesting to see how Daryl's past colors his responses to the present. That being said, if reading a theoretical perspective on Daryl and Merle's lives pre-ZA doesn't interest you and you're strictly here for Caryl smut, that can easily be accomodated by sticking to chapters 2, 4, and 6.

**Author's Note #2**: The Caryl section story is set near the end of Season 2. It presumes that the survivors are able to languish at the farm a bit longer than they actually were. It vagely takes place after Sophia is put down, but before the Randall/Shane situation is concluded.

**Warning**: This series contains adult language, references to domestic abuse, and mature content (read: sexy times). Have fun!

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, The Walking Dead is not mine.

* * *

People like to talk up laying down roots in the country. "Wide open spaces," they say. "Fresh air, clean living..."

Sure, maybe… on the surface. You'd have to actually live it to know the kind of things that go on in those wide open spaces.

Ain't nobody talkin' about that.

It could be that they're naïve, or cagey. Hell, maybe they're just conditioned; bone-weary from soldiering on with a bellyful of awful secrets that needed swallowing. That's the way of things around here. That's how it's always been. It was good enough for my daddy and my daddy's daddy, and any number of other prevailing old-timey rhetorics.

Point is, everyone here is free to go about their lives free of judgment from outsiders. With acres of land separating you from your nearest neighbors you can still hold your head high around town regardless, because even if somebody knows something's not right, there ain't no excuse for pokin' your nose into other folks' affairs, so best to forget what you heard or saw. It ain't right… won't never be right. It's just that it's easier when you got wide open spaces that absorb the rolling crescendos of anger and fear.

These were among the bitter sentiments coursing through Bobbie Jean Dixon's mind between replaying all of the night's blunders. She should have seen it coming. Daryl had been announcing incessantly that his toy truck had 'broke down', and was he was going to have to 'get up in there and have a look'. At the time she'd been so pre-occupied with trying to save dinner from burning and figuring out why there was a damn lake pooling in the middle of the kitchen floor, she had just murmured meaningless acknowledgement to him in response, relieved that he was keeping himself entertained and out of the way. She hadn't realized that he'd scampered upstairs with his backpack stuffed full of his father's tools until she gone up to put him to bed.

When she'd looked into Daryl's room and seen the assortment of hardware scattered around on the floor her heart had begun to race. The considerable collection had fallen into disuse long ago, but they still fell under the domain of HIS things, and she knew her little boy would be in for terrible retribution if found out.

So at her urging he had helped her quietly pack them all back into his bag. She sent him on a secret mission to put them all back just where he'd found them without being spotted by 'the enemy'. A feeling of relief had spread through her then. It had seemed they were actually going to get away with it, until her husband had stepped into the hallway in front of them with the large wrench in his hand that she herself had been using to handle the disaster in the kitchen.

"Where's all my shit?" he'd asked, his restrained voice belying his face which was crimson with drink and emotion.

"Wha- what do you mean, Honey?" she'd asked, feigning innocence, "I just needed… the dishwasher, remember I told you I had to… I'll put that back, baby. I know you work hard and I don't want you to-"

"I'm sick of bullshit, Bobbie. I was out there, I've seen how much is missing." He was losing control now, his voice trembling under the effort of staying calm.

"No, not missing Sweetheart…it's right here! It's just a little misunderstanding. Daryl was tryin' to help me and he didn't know what I needed so I guess he just packed up all of it. He's just going to put everything back right now, aren't you baby? Show your daddy how fast you can run and put everything away now."

"Ain't any of you got any business going through my things, and now you're makin' excuses for them! All of you are in on it, fleecin' me, riflin' through my shit; teachin' 'em how to be fuckin' delinquents."

His voice had expanded into a roar now. This was where Daryl had finally bolted out of fear, his little legs pumping for all they were worth to get him to the door before his daddy could intervene, "Hey! You forgot one… why don't you just take it all you little shithead!" His father had slurred before wildly chucking the wrench at Daryl's retreating form. The dense steel had glanced off the back of his little head and sent him skidding to the floor, unconscious.

Her hands tensed around the steering wheel as she pressed down harder on the gas pedal of the old pick-up, silently praying nothing large would come tearing out of the darkness on either side of them. She risked a sidelong glance at the passenger side of the truck where Merle sat with Daryl's head cradled in his lap, the rest of him sprawled out between them.

She hadn't been prepared, and the sight of it provoked a new wave of guttural sobbing from her.

"Oh Daryl… my poor baby. Merle, talk to him honey, he's not supposed to fall asleep after a knock to his head like that. Oh lord, please don't-"

"Why don't you shut your goddamned mouth and leave the almighty out of it for once!" Merle snapped, shocking his mother into silence, "If you want him awake that means he can **hear** you."

Bobbi Dixon shrank back from the malice in her eldest son's voice. She gave him one wounded glance, already knowing that now that she'd been quieted he wouldn't acknowledge her. She knew where he'd learned it. She exhaled a wavering sigh and blinked away the tears blurring the unlit road before them.

Merle cleared a lock of matted hair out of Daryl's eyes. The boy blinked up at him blankly.

"Hey, Daryl. Ya gotta wake up now. Hey, c'mon buddy, rise and shine!"

"Stop, Merle," he mumbled, half-lidded eyes drooping pitifully, "m'tired." He tried weakly to turn into Merle's lap and escape the bright dome light shining into his face. Merle sighed and shifted to hold him in place while maintaining pressure on the blood-soaked rag he had pressed to a deep gash in the boy's scalp. He was going to have to come up with something more compelling or the kid would be out for the count in no time flat. His mind catalogued the short list of things his little brother cared about. It wasn't a hard choice.

"Hey Daryl, you think ol' Butch Cassidy was really figurin' on goin' straight when he got hisself gunned down?"

Daryl's face perked up. He squinted, but kept his eyes open. Daryl may only be six, but Merle was pretty sure he'd already figured out how to get his goat from every conceivable angle, and Daryl especially hated it when Merle doubted Butch Cassidy.

"'Course he was."

"You know what I think? I think Butch was feedin' that Sundance Kid a big ole load of cockamamie bullshit."

"No he wasn't, Merle."

"Course he was." Merle mimicked him absently, trying to decide if the rag in his hands was darkening more slowly than it had been before.

"Butch _is_ an outlaw, but he don't go hurtin' nobody. He felt awful bad about it when they had to shoot all those bandits. He didn't get gunned down, neither. They got away... 'scaped to Australia."

Daryl's impassioned case for Butch Cassidy had been lost on Merle. He had been distracted by a change in course as they turned onto a long gravel drive. Several moments of silence had ticked by before he'd registered that Daryl's high pitched voice had quit yammering up at him. He looked down at his brother and was relieved to find the boy still squinting up at him.

"Am I hurt real bad, Merle? Like, am I dyin'?"

Merle flashed his mother a pointed glare before he responded in the most casual tone he could muster.

"Hell naw, Daryl. It'd take a lot more than this little bump you got on ya head here to kill a Dixon. You and me are made of tougher stuff. We're takin' you to the doc right now, Kid. Get ya all patched up. How you like that?"

"Yeah…I feel like I'm gonna puke."

"Well you go on ahead and puke if ya gotta."

The truck stopped with a lurch. Both Merle and Daryl turned to watch as their mother began fumbling at the door handle, cursing it under her breath. The driver's door had never worked quite right; just one of a lifetime's worth of projects the old man had put off in favor of slumping into his worn armchair with his fist wrapped possessively around a bottle of cheap liquor. When she finally managed to wrench it free she slid gracelessly from the cab and took off running until she collided with the darkened entryway of one of the fanciest houses Merle had ever seen, let alone visited. He couldn't make out her words at this distance, just unintelligible strains of panic pleading with a closed door. She was pounding her fists something fierce on the stately black walnut.

Time stretched out with uncertainty felt endless, punctuated only by the steady chiming of the sensor to signal her door was still hanging ajar in the otherwise still night air. A glance at the green LED clock on the stereo, however, told Merle it had only been a few moments before the racket provoked a light in the window. A few moments more and the door swung open. A disheveled looking figure emerged, looking stiff and reluctant in his conservative pajamas. His mother immediately latched onto the disoriented man's hand and dragged him behind her to the open driver side of the truck.

The doctor looked desperately circumspect. He grimaced as he peered into the truck only long enough to identify the pair of boys on the seat. Then he spun back on their mother, jerking his arm free of her grasp.

"Mrs. Dixon, what in hell's name do you mean bringing this to my front door? Your boy needs an emergency room!"

"I can't! If I take him there like this there'll be all kinds of questions. They'll want to take him away from me. Maybe… maybe even try to take all of them away."

"They ought to. Chrissakes, look at what he's done!"

"He didn't mean to, he was just… it was a mistake. I need you to help me keep this family together. That's the most important thing. We're all we got, and he needs us if he's gonna get better. I'm begging you. I'll give you whatever you want, just…help us."

Merle's face tightened with humiliation as he had to watch his mother throw herself at a decent man as though her pathetic desperation transacted like some kind of currency with good folks.

"What I want is for you to stop letting that maniac put his hands on these boys," the doctor responded sternly. Merle's heart swelled with gratitude.

"Do you have any idea...? I could lose my license! I ought to call the Sherriff right now Mrs. Dixon, and if you ever bring something like this to my door again and ask me to cover up for him I will. I mean it… never again."

She fell silent. Nothing she could say in response would be sufficient given her trespass here. There was nothing more to be said; and if she continued to speak she ran the risk of angering him further, so she resigned herself to stare back at him wordlessly. Fresh tears streaked down her face as she apprehensively awaited his decision. He shifted, obviously uncomfortable at the sight of her and sighed.

"Come on, son," he motioned to Merle, briskly brushing by Bobbi to circle 'round the truck and open the passenger door for him.

"Let's get him inside…"


	2. Chapter 2

'_Carol.'_

It was kind of a diversion, or the closest thing to a diversion he had any interest in. It took the edge off his annoyance at their visits. Each time a noise drew him away from whatever he was working on he tried to figure out who was approaching within the seconds it took him to look up. He was developing a crackerjack ear for the sound of friendly footfalls around here. It _was_ usually Carol. That took some of the sport out of the whole thing.

She had a plate with her, and a cup. She looked more casual than usual, finally having made some concessions to the unabated summer heat. She'd cut the neck out of a white Georgia Tech t-shirt that now draped languidly over one shoulder and her jeans had been cut off into shorts.

"It's getting late. I brought you some dinner."

He eyeballed the wrench in his hand a moment. He couldn't really remember how long it had been since he'd eaten anything but critters. The big game hunting had been fruitless lately, and his stomach twisted at what smelled like chicken. He tossed the tool to the ground in resignation, feeling around blindly until he found the rag he'd stashed nearby and wiped the grease from his hands before accepting the plate from her. Concession made, he hunched over and began shoveling food into his mouth mechanically, resolutely ignoring the plain disapproval on her face. He had already known she wouldn't leave, so he looked up at her expectantly while he chewed.

"You know you're always welcome to come eat with us…" she prodded.

He grappled with how to respond to her, irritated that they were going to do this dance again. He couldn't argue that he had fit well here when he bothered to show up, any more than he could begin to wrap his mind around what kept Carol coming around with gestures and tokens while he'd done his damnedest to drive her off.

It would be easier if he could understand what angle she was working. She'd never called him out on setting her up to fall, strutting around; mouth making promises his ass couldn't deliver on, complete with flowers and fairy tales… nothing but false hope. He hadn't meant the woman any harm. It had been an easy rut to carve when lacing his boots and going out to search was the only thing that had eased the sounds of her suffering. Each day she'd watch him leave with wistful eyes and purse her lips in that way that might have wanted to be a smile. Damned if those eyes hadn't convinced even _him_ Sophia was still out there, just waiting to be found around every turn.

Anyway, it was finished now. Shane had been right all along, and Daryl had been primed for the backlash since the night Shane had proven it. All of that tenderness for a lost child and a heartsick mother was shoved down deep along with the residual shame and dread. Not the anger. Anger was useful. Hard to sustain, though. Hard to keep wanting to take swipes at her after he'd already seen her suffer so much. God damn it, why didn't she fight back. **That** he'd know what to do with.

So sure, he could fit in all right. He had the requisite skillsets, but no intentions of forming attachments. He could indulge her charity on a nightly basis if it made her feel better, but he wasn't nervy enough to sit over there like he'd earned it. And, he damn sure wasn't going to sit around and be hen-pecked over it.

"Just lost track of time is all."

She had good instincts for ill-tempered men, and he knew enough to recognize it. She didn't belabor the point. She didn't respond at all, in fact. She just let the silence between them draw out until he realized he was still starring her down. He averted his eyes and silently resented the way she could communicate effortlessly, finessing the great wordless gaps between them like she had some kind of leverage over them. She hadn't looked away, but she was retreating into herself in subtler ways. She'd drawn her willowy arms around herself protectively.

He turned his gaze back down to his plate. She relaxed back into a tree trunk, arms still crossed in front of her, but lowered now. She favored him with a wan smile.

"Is it running okay?" she asked, nodding towards the motorcycle he'd adopted as his latest excuse to stay away.

"Yeah… it's just maintenance," he explained between bites, "Don't need no more surprises."

She nodded, "That's smart. Were you a mechanic?"

"Sometimes. Always tried to earn straight," he answered honestly, "Not Merle, though. He was always turnin' up with hair-brained schemes, tryin' to get us rich quick. They weren't ever nothin' but a damn heap of trouble," he explained. A reluctant smile warmed his voice as his subconscious sifted through some of the shit Merle had dragged him into.

"You miss him," she offered softly.

"He's my brother," his response was clipped, softened only slightly with a shrug of his shoulders, "Only family I had left."

More silence. He supposed she was waiting to see if he wanted to dump out his purse and have a good cry about what must've happened to poor old Merle back in Atlanta. He didn't.

"How 'bout you?" he asked her, all too ready to get the topic off himself. Finished with his meal now, he sat his plate aside and busied himself with gathering the scattered tools he'd been using and returning them to the red tool box he'd borrowed from Dale's RV.

"Hmm?"

"What, you ain't you never had a job?" he asked patronizingly.

"Not really. I had already taken up with Ed when I was in college. In the beginning it was one of those stupid flattery campaigns assholes like to lay on stupid girls. By the time I became restless enough to really question it, well… there wasn't really an option anymore."

He nodded. That asshole didn't need no sayin'. He noted with some satisfaction that for all her big talk of new beginnings she still couldn't seem to make eye-contact when she talked about him. Maybe he'd call her on it someday.

"I got to dance a little."

He looked up from the box that he'd been about to latch and wiped his hands on his pants, "What, like on a pole?"

The only thing more satisfying than the initial surprise in her pale blue eyes was the following fit of laughter he'd incited with his brashness. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard her laugh before, "No! Not on a _pole_, Jesus, Daryl..."

He smirked to himself, pleased at having stirred up the conversation.

"The North Atlanta Dance Academy," she clarified. The smile persevered, but her eyes turned reflective, "I was really good…"

Daryl tried to conjure up what he'd seen of dancers that kept their clothes on. All he got for his efforts were a few flashes of ballet dancers in tutus and tights on public television that he'd flipped by with disinterest.

Meanwhile, Carol had receded into her thoughts. There it was. Daryl immediately recognized his chance to disengage and slip away. She would drift back to Rick's camp and spend the rest of the night shut up in the RV, fretting over choices she couldn't unmake that didn't matter anyhow; and he could spend the rest of the night in solitude. It made perfect sense, and yet something inside of him twisted, strange and unfamiliar at the thought of it.

He looked around uncertainly. Good intentions or not, he wasn't about to settle in for a full night of girl talk, chit-chatting about their feelings. So what else was there? He picked himself up off the ground with a grunt.

"You ever ridden one?" he asked.

She blinked, distracted from her reverie.

"You still on about that damn pole?" she played along, good naturedly. He shook his head and gestured to the Triumph, "The motorcycle".

"Me?" she studied him speculatively, "No."

"Well, let's go. I'll teach you."

"You want me to ride your bike?" she asked dubiously, shifting her gaze to the Triumph.

"Yeah, why not?" Daryl responded, "Not like I'm going anywhere. I'm a mean son of a bitch, but as long as it's around you should know how to get away on it… might save your hide. "

She rolled her eyes at his description of himself as a 'mean son of a bitch', but she was too absorbed in sizing up Merle's bike and the proposition he'd just laid on her to effectively argue. He thought that might even be a flicker of intrigue in her unbroken gaze.

"Looks dangerous. I might kill us before the walkers get a chance."

"Maybe," he agreed antagonistically, disregarding her bluff. He offered his hand, "Come on."

She took a few hesitant steps towards him. He watched her expectantly, wondering what the hell she was still so afraid of.

"One time offer. Ain't you sick of regrets?" He goaded, and beckoned to her a second time with a crooked finger.

She studied him somberly for a moment, and then nodded assent.

"Get on," he instructed her. She swung a leg over the weathered black seat, clearly intimidated at the wide stance of the ape hanger handlebars.

He watched her face to gauge her comprehension. Although her standing straddle on the bike was stiff and uncomfortable, her eyes looked clear and sharp as he pointed out and explained the different controls.

"You have to be in neutral to start it. Turn on the key here, and the choke down here by the carb… this down here is the kick starter. Kick it down, 'til it turns over. When you hear it rev up, be ready to give it a little gas. Just a little, not too much… you don't want to flood it… "

She lifted her knee and cautiously pushed down on the kick starter. The bike barely rumbled, then fell silent again. He snorted derisively, "You're gonna have to put a little ass into it bein' as runty as you are."

She glared over her shoulder at him peevishly, but stood up again and stomped down on the kick starter, harder. It puttered longer this time, but didn't start.

"Well, don't look at me. Keep goin'."

He watched her lift her left foot and hoist herself onto the peg, raising herself up for a good five more inches of leverage. Smart girl. She gave a delicate grunt as she drove all of her weight down on the starter and to both of their surprise, it fired. She froze.

"Give it some gas!" he called out over the loud rumbling of the bike's engine.

The hulking beast shuddered for a moment then petered out. She sighed with exasperation, "Sorry…"

"Forget _sorry_, do it again!" he demanded, keyed up now.

She stood up to kick start the bike again. One thing he could say for Carol, she wasn't easily discouraged. She threw her weight into it, and the bike rumbled to life again.

He molded his hand over hers and and guided her through turning the throttle to give her a feel for it. She was quick to follow his lead and excitement lit up her face when he drew his hand back and she was able to maintain the idle on her own.

"It's runnin' steady now, turn off the choke" he instructed, inwardly impressed when she remembered where to find it and flipped the switch with no hesitation.

"You ready?" he asked. She swallowed and nodded nervously, but then reached out, grasping at the front of his shirt blindly with a trembling hand.

"You have to come with me!"

"I am, woman. Good lord! Just let me get my things!" she released him reluctantly, watching him like a hawk. He smoothed his torn flannel, more affectation than anything, "This is my best shirt."

She pursed her lips at his sarcasm while he bent down to pick up his crossbow and quiver and sling them over his shoulder. He slid smoothly into the seat behind her, shifting and adjusting until he was sure the weapon wouldn't be impeded. Then he hooked his right arm tentatively around her waist to steady himself.

"When you're ready pull in the clutch and push the gear shift down one for first. Then once you're going you can let out the clutch _slowly_..."

She let out a squeak and his heart leap into his throat as the bike lurched forward and he smacked chest first into her back. He groaned and firmed up his purchase high on her waist.

"Sorry…"

'_Gonna be a long ride…'_


	3. Chapter 3

"Just let me come, Merle. I won't be no trouble."

"You'd be nothin' but trouble." Merle's voice rasped from behind his turned back, too intent on hastily packing canned goods from the pantry into his leather saddlebags to be sidetracked with conversation.

"Aw, Merle! Who is this cutie? You didn't tell me you had a little brother."

Daryl started at the emergence of the girl he hadn't realized was in Merle's room. A shock of black hair dusted her shoulders. Her blue eyes were ringed in a heavy layer of black and her lips were a startling shade of red. She sat down the overstuffed duffel bag she'd carried out with her to bend over and coo at him, "Hi honey, I'm Jessica. What's your name?"

Daryl silently evaluated Jessica with hard eyes before turning back to his older brother, "I can back you up, Merle; make sure you don't get into any tight spots."

Merle trotted out of the kitchen, satisfied with the haul he'd scrounged up. He slung the saddlebag over his shoulder with a grunt, freeing his hands as he sidled up behind his accomplice.

"Oh, I've got a few tight spots in mind." he murmured, not to Daryl but to her. She shot up with a squeal and dissolved into giggles, giving him a light shove that he rolled with, disappearing backwards out of view through the open door of his bedroom with casual aplomb.

"Merle, don't do that in front of the kid, you pervert!" she scolded him, but it was clear from the levity in her tone she was anything but angry with him. Daryl glared at her, the obvious reason Merle was intent on up and leaving them out of the blue and wouldn't pay attention to a word he was trying to say.

"You know, maybe we could bring him along, Merle. I'm real good with kids… I mean… all that stuff you been tellin' me about your Dad…"

Merle's lighthearted demeanor faded when she brought up his father. Daryl felt his brother's gaze flick over to him quickly, but he was ready and immediately looked down to avoid eye contact. Some things you just don't talk about. He didn't look again until he heard her cry out, not pain but alarm. Merle had cuffed her on the back of the head roughly.

Daryl stiffened and shrank back from the unexpected outburst, "I thought I told you that stuff don't go beyond you and me. Like this wasn't hard enough, now you go puttin' ideas in his head. We're gonna have a hard time keepin' a low profile as it is. Nobody's gonna buy us with a kid that young. Don't be stupid!"

Her jaw hung open like it had been unhinged. Then something must have switched on because she launched herself at him, slapping furiously at his chest and face, "Don't you talk to me like that, you asshole, and don't you ever put your hands on me!"

"Christ almighty… " Merle groused. He caught her by her wrists and pulled her to him, "I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. Shhhh, shhh, shhh…. Hey c'mon now, calm down. Let's just get out of here with what we got while we can, huh?"

He kissed at her face forcefully. At first she twisted wildly and turned her face away trying to escape his grasp, but after a moment, she stilled and grudgingly accepted the affection. Satisfied that she'd been defused, he released her and stepped back. His hand ran through his sandy blonde waves as he tried to regain his bearings and assess their progress. It reminded him that Daryl was still standing the two of them watching from the hallway.

"'Sides, baby Daryl over there still wets his bed, ain't that right Daryl?"

"No." Daryl muttered quietly. He had, in fact, wet his bed three months ago. Of course, that had been after their father had socked him so hard the room had spun. He'd blacked out and was later informed that Merle had found him on the floor and carried him to his bed like a sack of potatoes. He'd slept for two days afterwards. It had hardly been his fault. Merle knew that, and Daryl though it was a damn cheap shot; but he couldn't figure any way to make mention of that without being called a pussy, so he stewed silently.

Jessica wasn't impressed with Merle's juvenile attempt at humor anyway. She exhaled impatiently and headed for the door, "I'll be outside on the porch when you're ready." She announced icily.

"Whew, kid. Take it from your big brother, bitches live to make you sorry…" he looked to Daryl for validation, but Daryl was glaring with peculiar intensity down at his shoes.

"Aw hell Daryl, ain't no call for sulkin'. You're too old for that shit. Nut up and leave that mess for the womenfolk." He said, bitterness creeping into his tone as he gestured towards the door, "You know I'd like to take ya with me if I could… It's complicated. And anyway, I need you to do somethin' for me…"

The pup was playing it cool now, glancing up at him with guarded eyes, "What?" Merle wordlessly took stock of the boy's more collected carriage, approving of the needed adjustment. Simpering in this household was as good as painting a target on your back, "Well, you know with me gone you're gonna be the man of the house. I'm gonna need you to keep an eye on things around here… take care of your Ma. You know how she is, runnin' that damn fool mouth. I imagine this will set her off. I figure you're big enough to take over for me for a little while, give your big brother a rest."

He swallowed and nodded in reply. Merle had spent the last summer at the boxing club. Not only had he shot up like a weed, he'd put on a good 50 pounds of muscle. Since then it had only taken one spectacular fight for Merle to keep Pop from raising a hand to anyone else in the house. His very presence in the house had been a deterrent. Daryl wasn't going to have it quite so easy.

Never one to politely wait out contemplative silences, Merle socked the lanky youth on the arm. It didn't hurt, but it was enough to send him stumbling backwards a step before regaining his balance."

"You ain't scared now, are ya?"

The question wasn't a question at all, it was a challenge. Showing fear meant a thrashing on principle. Daryl glared back at him, rubbing the sore spot on his arm and hating how you could never anticipate Merle. He'd switch from best friend to bully in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, what's the matter now Darylina, cat got your tongue?"

"No…"

"What's that? I can't hear you, Boy. Shit, you must be shakin' in your boots, ain't ya?"

"Shut up, Merle." Daryl gritted through clenched teeth, he curled his trembling hands into fists and raised them warily in front of him, ready to defend. Merle laughed heartily at this.

"You're all right, Kid." he allowed, ruffling his younger brother's hair.

"Yeah." Daryl replied, cautiously relaxing his arms back down to his sides.

Merle crouched down and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, don't you go getting' yourself all bent up over this now. This is temporary. You just gotta stick it out a little bit longer while I get some shit together for us. Stayin' here and rulin' the roost is gonna make you tough and mean, just like me. It'll be good for ya.

Merle reached a hand into his pocket and held it out to Daryl. Daryl outstretched his hand and Merle deposited a grubby set of keys with a Ford logo into it.

"The truck's yours now. I want you to have it. I popped the hood a few weeks back hopin' it was just a corroded connection, but I'm pretty sure the starter's shot. You can mow Widow Thompson's lawn for the scratch to buy a rebuild if ya want. Or hell, rebuild it yourself if ya got the patience. Lord knows I ain't. There's some manuals tossed in the back of back of my closet somewhere. Couple skin mags, too, so don't say I never gave ya nothin'."

Daryl nodded, overwhelmed by the gesture. The ancient Ford F-250 may not exactly be in working order, but it was still a hell of a leg up. He didn't make any more arguments as Merle stood up and hefted the bags he'd packed to leave. He just watched and clutched the Ford keys in his hand so tightly they dug an angry red mark into his palm.

Halfway through the door, Merle hesitated and turned back, "I'll see you again Daryl, real soon. You and me are gonna ride together, so be smart. Don't get your ass in a sling over some small-time shit rootin' around in the old man's shed. You stay sharp and watch yourself 'til I can spring ya. You got me?"

Daryl nodded mutely, and watched Merle disappear through the doorway of their childhood home for the last time.


	4. Chapter 4

'Brake lights. How could there be brake lights?'

She'd been doing well until she'd seen them. Daryl had dismissed her requests that he navigate beyond prompting her to shift gears as needed, so it had been her prerogative to roam wherever she pleased. She had stuck to the back roads around Herschel's farm. It was too late to stray very far. Initially she hadn't given much thought to the beat up Dodge Ram parked off to the side, its tailgate parallel to the road and the front end faced out into a small wooded valley. There were abandoned cars everywhere anymore. They had been less than 20 feet away when the dull plastic brake lights had flashed cherry red.

The pit of her stomach dropped, filling with dread as she slowed to an ungraceful stop. Daryl's arm tensed around her so she knew he'd seen it too. She felt him slide his left foot under hers and deftly shift the bike into neutral.

"Don't move," he breathed into her ear to be heard over the roaring of the Triumph's engine without shouting. Surely whoever it was would have heard them approaching. She felt the bike lighten beneath her, as he dismounted, touching down to her right. Her knuckles were white and trembling clenched tightly around the handgrips. He touched her right fist and gestured for her to move back.

Her hands dropped. She nimbly shifted back to make a space in front for him. He settled astride the bike again and she promptly wrapped her arms tightly around him. The truck's engine fired up, the brake lights blinked out again, and the vehicle began to lumber backwards.

"Hold on." he called back to her, as the truck finished backing up and was now facing them head on.

"This might get ugly."

"What the fuck is that!?" she faintly heard someone shout from the tree line below, "Hey, you! On the bike… stop!"

He turned the bike sharply and peeled out in the direction they'd come from, kicking up a shower of gravel and a heavy cloud of dust behind them. The unmistakable sound of a shot rang out. Carol shrieked reflexively and ducked her head, pressing her face into the ash colored wings of Daryl's vest.

The wind gusted savagely, whipping at her shirt. Her stomach lurched as she felt them bouncing flat-out down a long, steep decline. She tried to will herself to open her eyes, find out where they were headed and if the strangers had given chase. It was a losing battle with her fight or flight response which knew that huddling here behind the solid leather-clad wall of Daryl's back was the surest way to stay out of harm's way.

They were slowing now, though the bike sounded more taxed than ever. The ground under their feet had changed. She could feel the swish of grasses sweeping against her boots as they rode by and branches whipped on her exposed legs and arms. She finally ventured a peek around his arm to see the lush green grass beneath them and overgrown forest on all sides. It wasn't until she noticed the dark silhouette of a house began to take shape that she gained her bearings. Her heart twinged. It wasn't the first time he'd brought her here.

Daryl coasted to a stop behind the house. Well-obscured, he cut the engine and restored the property back into a deceptively serene silence.

"This place should be safe." he said tersely, looking back over his shoulder at her as she dismounted, "We've been through, clearing out the trash. They can't follow us the way I came in no truck. If they want us that bad they'll have to hoof it."

She looked around, uncomfortably. Trying to ignore how much his glacial blue gaze flagrantly tracking her every response unsettled her and compounded the fact that she didn't want to linger here. Not with him anticipating and openly irritated with her smothered emotional response. She wasn't sure how much longer she could suppress it. She'd been holding everything in trying to convince everyone at camp that she hadn't lost her mind so long that sometimes it felt like drowning. And now, to be swept back to the place hope had crested in the drawn out search for Sophia was like allowing a wound to partially heal only to tear it open again.

"They saw what direction we rode in from. They might decide to follow it and take the farm by surprise. We should try to get there first…" she ventured.

Daryl shook his head, "If I were them I'd be up there patrolling the road, waiting to see if we're going to come back out. We start up the bike they can follow the noise right to us. Besides, if they're stupid enough to show up at the farm they'll flush Rick and Shane. That's a hell of a welcoming party."

"Could go wrong. Someone could get hurt." Carol fretted aloud.

Daryl cut his eyes at her, "We stay here long enough to be sure they ain't got anyone that can track us. We'll head back before nightfall."

Carol gave an exasperated sigh, realizing too late from the shift in his face that she'd just exhausted the last bit of restraint Daryl had in him.

"They're gonna find it sooner or later, you know that, right? Rick and Shane and whatever this bullshit pissing contest between them is really about… it's all for shit. Why you think those guys shot at us, huh? We got no beef with them. Sooner or later someone's gonna find that goddamned farm that y'all think is your salvation. It ain't no better or no worse than the farmhouse ten miles down the road, but people ain't no smarter than dogs when it comes to stuff like this. They see how tight y'all are holdin' onto it and figure you got a bigger bone… want what you got just 'cause you're so afraid of losin' it."

"I just… I think maybe it doesn't have to be that way." she said softly.

"Yeah, but you'd believe it if they said so." he muttered bitterly, "Who you gotta hear it from before your stubborn ass will fall in line, huh? You need ol'Rick Grimes with a "good guy" star pinned on his chest to tell you how it is? Maybe ole commando Shane'll storm in and mow down the bad guys in a goddamn mushroom cloud…"

She could only watch speechless as he began to whip himself up into a sudden and startling rage. He closed the gap between them, daring her to flee. Their faces were so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. The air suffused with the smell of leather and motor oil that clung to him.

"Yeah well, sorry Sweetheart. It's just me here. Just Daryl fuckin' Dixon, backwoods hick from some shithole town you ain't never heard of. Guess nobody told ya 'fore ya came sniffin' around, I'm the clean-up guy. That's why they keep me around. I do their shit work, dirty stuff that might keep them up at night; and then I go away so they don't have to think about it. That's what **I'm** here for. Not no big-time heroics like savin' little girls or nothin'."

She flinched and averted her eyes. Her vacant gaze was drawn to the ragged remnants of the Cherokee rose bush that had bloomed there so picturesquely. She remembered how she'd torn it to shreds and scattered it on the wind, too numb with despair to notice the rivulets of blood surfacing from the dozens of tiny lacerations where she'd gouged herself on the thorny vines.

Then she had cried. For days, she'd cried. Sobbed. Screamed. Beat her fists raw and bloody against the RV walls. Because how could it be? What did it all mean? She'd come so far and grown so much, and yet the cruelty of this world was unfathomable. It made no sense. It defied everything she'd learned. At every turn she was confronted by something that challenged everything that had gone before, and so when the old ingrained impulse to steel herself against Daryl's onslaught rose she ignored it. Carving out an emotional void to hide from Ed had been easy, but it had never served her.

_What you really want, Carol Peletier, is to be fit for him, and you are very far from it. It's touching that you want to repay him for the kindness he's shown you, but really, what do you think you have that he needs or wants? And don't be a romantic – don't, for heaven's sake, say __**you**__. You, Carol?_

Instead, she puzzled over the things he'd already said. She studiously disassociated everything, lovingly wiping away the cruelty and the malice to weigh each word and it's worth in what she thought might be a psychological equivalent to the way Shane had tended to her battered hands so patiently that day.

_All I've done is question his instincts, and it's triggering the part of him that believes if he showed vulnerability we'd reject him as weak. And look at what Rick's doing with Randall… what __**we're**__ doing… what we have __**Daryl**__ doing… Who could blame him? God, Dale was right about so much…_

She reached up slowly and deliberately with her hand and cupped the side of his face. She wasn't sure if he was trembling from rage or from exhaustion, but he still drew his breaths in ragged huffs. She braced for him to swat her away or spin away from her, but he didn't. He just glared at her contemptuously.

She was tired of this lump in her throat, and the way she never seemed to be able to say anything during those moments when she had the brunt of their enigmatic intimacy filling her chest. She wished she knew what needed saying so desperately, but sometimes he seemed so dark and impenetrable wrestling with words felt futile. Some folks just aren't meant for simple lexical answers.

That was when she had kissed him.

She hadn't planned it. Hadn't even thought about it really beyond the rote movement it took to close the negligible bit of space that he'd left between them. Just her lips pressed chastely against his, hoping to channel some vestige of the security she instinctually accredited to him and couldn't articulate.

He had flinched at the contact, but he hadn't pulled away. Hadn't touched her. Hadn't kissed her back. He just stood there, coiled with tension. The look he gave her afterwards was a muddle of incredulity, and betrayal. You'd have thought he'd been struck rather than kissed. His mouth opened, perhaps to respond, only to close again. His jaw visibly tightened beneath his taut skin. He let out an audible scoff as whirled around on his heel to stalk away, but he'd barely made it a step before slowing to a stop.

Her stomach twisted. Would this be it then?

_That's what you bitches do, always trying to manipulate men with your cunt._

That's what Ed would have said to a move like that. When had she become so bold? Even the idyllic calm of the forest around them couldn't mask the barren spirit of this longing, which rode on the tears of misunderstanding and love too long neglected. Still, it would be self-loathing to regret it. It seemed perverse, but the present sometimes seemed brimming with life compared to the past. Actual life, robust and meaningful; not the parody of it she had played out before, micromanaging housework and concealing her bruises for other people's benefit.

"I—" Carol began, when without warning Daryl seized her so tightly and kissed her so hard that whatever she had been about to say was instantly gone forever. Finally, blissfully, her mind was quiet.

The kinetic force behind his advance had taken her by surprise and she lost her footing, stumbling backwards until her back met the exterior wall behind them with a thud. He was undeterred. If anything he exploited his dominant positioning, rough hands rutting beneath the soft cotton of her t-shirt, running greedily over the curve of her waist and her ribs until he'd worked his way up to the elastic clasp in the middle of her back. He hesitated less than a moment before yanking at it impatiently until she felt it fall slack and he broke the kiss to sweep the entire fistful of clothing over her head and drop it to the ground.

She could see his face now, but his eyes weren't seeking hers. All traces of the uncertain boy she'd been worrying over had vanished. His slitted gaze was locked onto the expanse of her skin bared beneath him with the cool calculation of a predator. Stalking her, studying her…

The charged surface of her skin was begging to be touched again. Her back arched despite her, eager to actuate contact again. She couldn't wait; now that the prospect of solace was becoming a reality, Carol's emptiness had become unbearable. He understood her non-verbal pleading, and even gratified her by opening his mouth over the delicately rendered sinews and hollows of her neck and dragging the flat of his tongue along the fluttering skin, grazing her with his teeth.

Most of her senses were hopelessly caught up in the precision of his caresses. Somewhere on the blurry edges of her perception, she could feel his hands working at her shorts, coaxing them over the flare of her hips until they dropped to the ground to be stepped out of and kicked aside. Then he seized her firmly by the waist and interposed his leg between hers, grinding his rigid sex into her sensitive inner thigh bullishly until she compliantly shifted her feet apart enough for him to fix himself between them.

She shivered as his hand trailed along her thigh, testing her response to variations in the pressure and techniques he applied. He slipped a finger between the folds of her sex and she moaned appreciatively as the calloused tip dragged lightly over her clit. He smirked when his next pass was met with a gush of warm slick fluid signaling her arousal.

He grasped her by the arm and whirled her around. She barely kept up, bracing herself against the exterior wall with her forearms. She heard the jingling of him working at his belt and zipper, and then he was carefully guiding himself inside her with a deep breath. She moaned hungrily. He hovered there with her a moment, the length of his body pressed tight against her curves. The transitory pause felt like an eternity as his hands locked onto her waist again, but she was startled by the power in his next thrust. She writhed and whimpered beneath him, which stoked him to drive into her harder and faster. Then as suddenly as it has begun, it was over. He pulled out hastily and collapsed against her with a shuddering groan. A hot stream of cum jetted between their bodies and ran down the small of her back. She felt the coarseness of his beard against her shoulder, his labored breathing on the nape of her neck. The leather of his vest stuck to her back in the muggy Georgia heat.

A moment passed until her uneasiness got the better of her and she wriggled out of his grasp and turned on him expectantly. Her blue eyes searching his for meaning. She found no trace of cruelty or smugness in his face. He looked astonished, ashamed even. His hands had gone stiff and rigid at her sides, like he was suddenly afraid to touch her. Afraid to look down and admire the sheen of sweat that glistened on her sun-kissed golden skin.

"The fuck do you keep hangin' around for? I keep trying to tell you…" he said, barely audibly." He swallowed, "I ain't no good at this stuff."

Her chest tightened with panic, he was starting to retreat. She moved forward insistently and nestled herself against his chest. She closed her eyes and rested there, willing him to draw her in until his arms lowered gingerly around her.

"I'm sorry." he whispered.

"I'm not." she reassured him. She hadn't cum, but she still felt gloriously unbottled, relieved of the ubiquitous magnetism that had been mounting between them for so long.

"Think you were right." she heard the rumble of his voice through his chest, "It's not safe out here. We should get back." he gently untangled himself from her embrace and bent down to retrieve her shirt, which he dutifully held in front her until she humored him by securing it to her chest with a palm, covering her breasts. Then he turned his back and walked away from her, leaving her to clothe herself in troubled seclusion.


	5. Chapter 5

The bouncer eyeballed the young man in front of him wearily. His burly hands toyed with the ID card, turning it over, grazing his thumb on the edge; but his eyes never wavered.

_Dixon…_

Daryl Dixon had been glowering from the get-go when he stalked up and impatiently fished the card out of his wallet. His disposition didn't appear to be much improved over time as the minutes dragged on. Those narrow, steely eyes were still teeming with aggression. His weight shifted from one boot to the other and back again, telegraphing his impatience. Not that Tiny gave a shit. It took a lot to rattle him. More than a bad look from an arrogant little peckerwood. Sure, he had a little heft to him under that over-starched grey dress shirt and leather vest, but he was still too green to know which way the wind was blowin'.

"D'ya need me to read it to you?" Daryl finally snapped.

"Naw, I can read just fine, Daryl." he replied, taking his time to size the kid up. His eyes weren't just hooded, he noticed, they were swollen.

_Junkie, maybe._

The license in his hands wasn't the real concern. It wasn't a complete hack job, but it wasn't real. That didn't make no never mind either, though. Echols County was a shitty little backwoods place on the fringes. He could only imagine what it must be like growing up here, and if the restless youth wanted to spend their time inside the bar posturing instead of outside of it vandalizing cars and assaulting folks he'd chalk it up as a plus.

It was the name Dixon that gave him pause. Merle Dixon was a goddamn plague on humanity, and although Tiny hadn't actually ever seen this one, he looked younger and smarter than Merle. Maybe not meaner, but definitely vexed today.

With a sigh he held out the ID back to the kid. As troublesome as his gut liked to be, Tiny could generally be counted upon to give a guy a fair shake.

"You sure you don't want to go cool off somewhere before you start tyin' one on?" He tried, half-heartedly.

Daryl snatched the card from his outstretched hand and shouldered past him impatiently.

"I ain't stayin'… just gotta talk to my brother. Merle? MERLE!"

Tiny shook his head and fished around in the pocket of his leather jacket, worrying at the warm smooth case of a cellular phone indecisively.

"Where the hell you been?" Daryl demanded upon spotting Merle sitting listlessly at a table in a dark corner with two women. The ashtray at the table was near to overflowing. All of them regarded his approach with eyes that were glassy and vacant.

"Ladies!" Merle announced, rising to his feet to attempt something that must have been intended to be a flourish. The gesture put him off-kilter, and he had to reach out and lean heavily on the table for support. One of the women giggled uncertainly.

"I'm sure neither of you has had the pleasure, on account of he don't keep company with no tramps and thieves. Meet my brother, the most sorriest, fun hatin' son-of-a-bitch, Daryl Dixon."

Daryl's trajectory didn't falter. Ignoring Merle's ignorant pandering, he stalked forward until he was nose to nose with his brother and repeated the question.

"Where were you?"

His heart beat was pounding so loudly in his ears now he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear if Merle did bother to answer. He swallowed thickly in anticipation. He could already feel the wheels coming off it. Merle didn't know what Daryl was getting at, but he was riled now and there was an audience. Merle cared too damn much what other people thought. Probably cared more about what these goddamned hookers thought than doin' right by his own kin.

"Hell, everybody knows where to find old Merle, don't ya ladies?" he slurred, "Wherever the party is."

"How about the **funeral** party you ignorant son of a bitch?!" Daryl shouted at him. The bar grew noticeably quieter after Daryl's outburst. He searched the elder Dixon's face intently for some kind of reaction, but Merle's face remained stolid.

"Oh." He said simply.

"OH?" Daryl volleyed back sarcastically, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically.

"Finally put your mama to rest, did ya?" Merle asked, voice dripping with condescension. He looked Daryl over with a sneer of disgust and Daryl's jaw tightened as he braced himself for whatever Merle was about to launch into.

"Well… I recon it was high time my baby brother was weaned. 19 years is a long time to be sucklin' at a teat. Hell, maybe you'll stumble into some pussy now, if you ain't too much of a fagg-"

The final syllable of Merle's insult caught in his throat as the wind was knocked clean out of him. Daryl's lowered shoulder had caught him off-guard and the two of them went careening into the wall behind him. Merle's entourage gasped and scattered.

"How 'bout you show a little respect. She was your mama too, you fucking tweaker!" Daryl grunted, trying to avoid the stink assaulting his senses that could be a bender lasting for days if not weeks.

"Yeah, she was a real good one, wasn't she?" Merle wheezed into his face defiantly.

He was earning this beating every bit. Daryl drove a few quick fists into him, doubling the older man over. Merle tried to recover by grabbing at his arms, but Daryl knew if he gave up leverage with Merle's weight advantage he'd be pinned before he knew what had hit him. Luckily, he was quick and wiry enough to avoid Merle's grasp easily. Merle tried to move with him, a single step forward to preserve the gap and gain him some mobility, but Daryl had seen that coming and flung him backwards again. Merle hadn't been ready for that, and he grunted as he took the brunt of the impact on the back of his head. His skull met brick with a sickening thwack and. His legs buckled, the rest of his body sliding down the wall not far behind them. The sight, and the sound of it would have unsettled him any other day, made him back off, but Daryl had gone through too much today. His vision was blurred. His eyes stung from fighting back tears for no other reason than that he'd had it beaten into him as long as he could remember that real men don't. He'd felt nothing but weak as he'd mourned his loss today, but sadness translated into anger well enough, and it felt gratifying to find an emotion that his lifelong conditioning told him it was okay to dive into. He pounced forward, grasping the front of Merle's shirt with one hand, fist drawn back to crack him in the face when he heard a distinct metallic click. Daryl faltered, looking down in disbelief to affirm what his instincts already knew.

"It's a different game now, ain't it little brother?" Merle rasped, raising the 9mm he'd produced. Smugness lit up his features for a moment, but it quickly ebbed out leaving him looking sick and haggard beyond his years. He drove the greasy metal into the bottom of Daryl's jaw hard. Daryl swallowed, reluctantly releasing his grip on Merle's shirt and drawing back hands lifting stiffly in front of him like an afterthought.

"Jesus Christ, Merle…" a masculine voice muttered behind them, thick with disgust. The only thing to do now was flee, but neither of them moved to disengage. It would be too close to submitting, so the two men continued to stare each other down, doggedly indifferent to the sound of sirens approaching in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Finally, here it is! Brace your feels, and I hope you enjoy. I had a super hard time figuring out how I wanted to wrap this one up, and it's been almost completely rewritten from my first draft. I've definitely learned a lot in writing my first fic, and I look forward to many more to come. There's only one more bit forthcoming, a brief epilogue which should be up later this evening.

This installment definitely goes out to **Definitelywalkerbait**, for all of your generous feedback and encouragement. I appreciate it, and definitely wanted to make not to let the muse skip town before I ground out a bit of closure on this one. 3

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, The Walking Dead is not mine.

* * *

Carol's eyes fluttered open with a start. In the grip of a fitful sleep her subconscious had been reimagining the previous night. It had been like she was there all over again, shoved up against that faded brown siding with Daryl fitted so perfectly against her. It had been different, though, because in her dream he hadn't been eclipsed by the precipitous carnality that had emerged as a rift between them. When she had looked at his eyes, they had met hers readily, an assurance that he was present and the energy between them was reciprocal. Now that she'd awakened, her heart raced and her mind scrambled to unravel the fantasy trying to weave itself in with the reality. It felt desperately important that she be able to distinguish between the two just now.

So the rules of comportment between herself and Daryl Dixon had unexpectedly unraveled around them yesterday. So, what? Why should they be any different than the rest of the natural world, descending into ruin all around them? The harder she struggled to attain an idyllic Zen-like detachment, the faster the glut of residual impressions seeped in through the cracks. A disjointed sensory slideshow of scents, tastes, textures, secrets, and emotions.

_Twitterpated._

Now there was a silly word. One she'd whispered to tease her daughter a lifetime ago, when things had been different. Never about Ed, of course. That ship had long since sailed, but Sophia's future had still been budding, and Carol had listened, privately amused as Sophia had rambled excitedly about her loves. Gunner, the blonde boy who'd moved from Germany. Ashton who had dyed his hair black and played songs from the radio on his acoustic guitar. Shane, the larger than life deputy that had seen potential in a jumble of lost, skittish people gridlocked on the road and coordinated them into a working unit. It had taken weeks for Carol's allusion to the more age appropriate Carl to take hold, whom Sophia had quietly reported to be unaware she existed despite being 'the very last boy on Earth'. Carol had been puzzled at the news, since as far as she could tell the two were inseparable, but she'd consoled her daughter anyway and advised her to be patient and remember Carl had been through a lot lately.

Was this what she'd been reduced to? Schoolgirl crushes?

As she idly worried at her own circumstances in her mind, it began to register that her daughter had bled into her thoughts, and she wasn't overcome with sadness. The faint tug of mourning was tempered, even somehow comforting. She exhaled slowly and deliberately, closing her eyes out of years of ritual habit in spiritual matters.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this world, Sophia. I hope you're someplace kinder now. I'm so grateful to have known you, and I'll remember…"

Tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes, but this too was different – the bitterness was receding into something kinder. It was like after all of that time spent in the bleakest corners of her subconscious to atone for some inescapable flaw in herself had actually shown her the enormity of losing Sophia from so many perspectives she'd left herself no true recourse but to forgive herself her fumbling humanity and heal.

In the worst moments, snatched up and locked down, thrashing uselessly against Daryl's unshakable grip it had hurt so much she'd been ready to die from it. Afterwards it was been like being caught in a vacuum state of purgatory. Everyone had orbited in slow, ritualized circles of exchanged comfort around her - parallel, but separate. In some ways worse than being alone. Still, she'd kept on. To her utter amazement not only was she still here, she was stronger. Maybe this was it, then. Maybe honoring Sophia's memory meant more than suffering, but also persevering to become the kind of woman that could do anything – everything – to save her family.

_Enough._

She rolled over her stomach and gave a great stretching yawn. It pulled at the spot where he'd grazed her neck with his teeth and gave rise to a faint soreness, a potent reminder of-

_Nope, not that either._

She flung back the covers and hoisted herself up from the bed defiantly. Even after the time spent reflecting on everything, it was still early morning twilight outside. She had long been one of the earliest risers among the camp, rising to tarry with whoever has gotten stuck with the last watch of the evening. This morning it was T-Dogg that was hunkered down in the center of their little circle of tents. Not unusual, he seemed to prefer taking a late watch and sleeping late into the afternoon. He looked rumpled and weary, but alert.

"Good morning." She called out to him. His mouth turned up into an easy smile at the sight of her approach. He gestured towards the dented coffee tin and she nodded. He ducked down, riffling through a nearby box and by the time she'd reached him he'd produced a second mug and poured her a generous cup. She wrapped an affectionate arm around him and pressed a spirited smacky kiss against the smooth side of his head.

"Good morning, Mrs. Robinson." He ribbed her, "Was just thinking I could use a little sugar in mine."

"Good morning! How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Aw, I'm good." He replied, shrugging off the inference that he might be burdened, "It's been a quiet morning… peaceful."

The two of them settled into companionable quiet for a bit. She savored a deep sip of the dark roast clutched between her hands. In the silence she was steadily losing leverage over her restless mind. Her gaze lighted on Daryl's motorcycle, standing undisturbed just a few feet from his tent. The seat glistened with morning dew.

She sighed. This wasn't going to get her anywhere. She reached out and squeezed T-Dog's arm, "I'm gonna get breakfast started."

"Hey, I'll have the continental breakfast, with a side of bacon." He volunteered.

"You'll have the gruel, and you'll like it." She shot back playfully as she circled back towards the coolers that contained their dwindling food stores.

The role of mother and house wife fit her like a well-worn glove, but she couldn't help but feel restless, always aware in the back of her mind that other people had actual lives they were living. She squinted through the rising sun and saw Andrea settling in on the top of the RV with a rifle under her arm, looking every bit the gilded warrior with her golden hair and bronzed skin.

Carol chewed at her lip uncertainly.

**TWD**

"I need your help."

"Sure Carol, what's up?" Shane had responded affably. Carol waited with baited breath. He was accommodating now because he didn't know why she had come. He no doubt expected her to produce a stuck jar, or to ask him to lift something heavy for her. She cleared her throat and continued, "You have watch later tonight. I thought maybe I could come along, so you could teach me how to defend myself."

His eyebrows furrowed. She'd been prepared for that. Shane's face was an open book. If you were up to it you could watch every immediate mental and emotional reaction he had over the course of a conversation play out across the hard planes of his face. It had always struck her as profoundly childlike, and it was one of the things that had endeared him to her. It was why everyone could tell that he'd changed, and it didn't take much to connect the dots for those that had been around long enough to see Lori arrive at the quarry with Shane and leave with Rick. He was still Shane though, no-holds-barred, call-it-like-ya-see-it Shane, and that was reassuring.

I think it's better if you stay here." He, somehow managing to sound genial and authoritative all at once.

"I'm going stir crazy here." She replied honestly, "I need to get away for a bit. I could do more to help out."

"Putting yourself in harm's way isn't going to help anything." He lectured, returning to his work. She sighed in frustration and tried to keep in stride, though she needed two steps to his one to keep up. She'd tried been trying so hard to prove to everyone that she could come back from this, and he thought she had some kind of death wish.

"Stop." she insisted, grasping him by the forearm.

"It'll help _me_." She pressed, realizing as far as persuasive arguments went hers was already sounding deranged straight out of the gate.

Shane sighed. He gripped her lightly by the arms, and peered down at her intently, "Look, Carol. I'm real sorry about your little girl, but-"

"This isn't about her!" Carol exploded abruptly.

"…it's about **me**." She finished, wrestling her tone back to an appropriate level, "This is the world we live in, and I need to **live** in it. I can't always be hanging back waiting for you or Rick or Daryl to save me. I want to survive… and I'm asking you to show me how."

He held his tongue for a moment and scanned her critically, "You serious about this? You really want my advice?"

She nodded.

"Get strong. Whatever you have to do, do it now. Mentally, emotionally, physically… this world is made to break you. You gotta build yourself up. You don't need to go out lookin' for danger, Carol."

He gestured to the barn contentiously, "Danger's everywhere. It's right under our god damned noses every day, and it'll be breathing down your neck before you know it. You just need to get yourself ready for it; and Lady, you got some work to do. Get your head around that and you might stand a chance."

She folded her arms and cocked her head, "So where do we start?"

She spent the rest of the afternoon under Shane's direction filling and hauling heavy drums of water from the well and transporting the awkward load back to the house where Herschel had proposed they create an emergency food store. As they worked, he stressed the importance of paying attention to her surroundings, occasionally challenging her with scenarios, "There's a geek coming up behind Maggie right now, you've got seven seconds to get to her. What can you reach between here and there to kill it?"

For the first hour or so each time she passed a man had tried to take over for her. Shane had expected as much, and found it amusing. He left it to her to fend off their repeated attempts, except in the case of Jimmy who had literally jumped and fled when Shane abruptly barked, "What, you don't think she can do it?"

Carol had frowned disapprovingly, but held her tongue. Her face burned under the puzzled glances she could feel from everyone passing by, but she did her best to ignore them.

_It doesn't matter._

Afterwards she was exhausted, but proud of the work she'd done. Every muscle in her body oozed like warm taffy. Shane gave a rare smile and clapped her on the shoulder.

"That wasn't too bad, for an old broad."

She gave him a light whack on the front with the back of her hand and smiled while he laughed out loud.

"You're gonna feel that tomorrow, I guarantee you. After it cools down tonight warm yourself up with some cardio and make sure you stretch. Tomorrow we'll be diggin' out in that red Georgia clay, my friend, you and me!"

She groaned theatrically, and he thumped her on the back.

"Nah, you'll thank me. Gotta build up those guns 'til they're good for something. I'm telling you Carol, if you really want it, I can get you there."

"I know you can. Thank you."

"Now let's go eat."

**TWD**

"Everything all right?" Lori asked her purposely as she handed her a paper plate of food. She looked tired and frayed heading up the dinner effort.

"Fine, I'm fine." Carol replied nonchalantly. She ate quickly, standing up. Her gaze traveling around the long aluminum table they'd set up. The butcher knife Lori had used to cut potatoes was still resting there on the cutting board. A large two-pronged serving fork rested on the edge of the grill. On the ground there were a pair of shallow pits for Dutch oven cooking, and close by was a hammer they used to lift the hot lids. The shovel they'd used to dig the pits for them also leaned forgotten against a nearby tree.

In less than a minute she'd spotted four decidedly lethal weapons where she'd have previously not considered herself armed.

She glanced up and the smile of satisfaction that had settled itself upon her face died on her lips. Daryl was standing there, standing tall and solitary beside the fence line. She couldn't make out his features, the setting sun backlighting him, crossbow and all with a sort of abstract artistry. The longer he lingered it occurred to her that he must be deliberating, 'you're always welcome to come eat with us.' She had said.

_Please_

His silhouette turned, and he started off towards the line of tents. Her heart sank, and her eyes turned back down to her plate. She rubbed the back of her sore neck. She didn't want to go on like this, she realized. And unlike when Ed had reigned, her feelings were going to matter.

**TWD**

She found him lying in his tent, the zipper wide and the flaps agape, as usual. He hated being enclosed.

"Hey."

He looked up at her from the arrow fletching he'd been toying with, with no answer. It was neither a dismissal nor an invitation.

"I want to talk to you."

"'bout what?"

"You know what about."

He looked at her expectantly. Feeling emboldened, she ducked into the tent and drew her legs up under her. This might just be good for him. A way of easing - very very slowly -back into the rhythm of human connection, so that no one has to be alone, or cold, or trapped within themselves.

"I wanted to make sure you're okay."

He scoffed, and avoiding her eyes.

"and make sure you know that I'm okay."

That statement provoked eye-contact, and the first sign of a cessation in the tension between them.

"And to tell you, I'm not in any rush to define anything, but I care about you. And if you think, maybe this isn't quite it, maybe there's something else, you can say so."

"Shit… if I was any good at words, we wouldn't have to _talk_ about it" he muttered.

"Are we all right?" she prompted finally, reducing it down to the only thing that really mattered and plunging into that terrible exposed feeling headlong.

"Yeah."

It was barren and cold, but she had an answer. It was all she could ask for. This too, was something she was going to have to learn to live with. She turned to leave, and felt his hand light on her forearm.

"Wait." He ventured, and shifted himself upright in a sitting position.

She stopped, near enough that she could see the lines on his face, far enough away to demonstrate that she wasn't taking anything for granted.

It was clearly an ongoing battle – internal, now, more than external – but it had to be acknowledged all the same. He was a feral man, and a damaged man, and his triggers could easily flare out of control if he wasn't conscious enough to interrupt the cycle. Emotion didn't come easily to him. There were, no doubt, times before when he'd suffered for it. Teachers, social workers, family – it was too much to hope that one of them had nourished his promise. Daryl had clearly had to fight for every scrap of security he'd ever known.

"Do you think…you and me could start over? You… being with you… I really wish I would've gotten that right." He confessed faintly.

Her admiration for him was tinged with compassion she knew he would not welcome. She knew better than to present herself in the role of a healer. He wouldn't take that any better than she would have.

"Yeah, we can do that." She responded, "I'd like that." His eyes traveled over her face, drinking in her sincerity before he leaned in again. She held her breath and closed her eyes. A feeling of weightlessness surged inside her chest, when light as a feather, light as air their lips finally touched. Daryl Dixon's reimagining of their first kiss, comfortable and sweet, like easing into fate.

* * *

_Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,_

_there is a field. I'll meet you there._

_When the soul lies down in that grass,_

_the world is too full to talk about._

_Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense._

mevlana jelaluddin rumi - 13th century


	7. Epilogue

"Daryl?"

Merle's raspy voice broke the mid-morning silence of the dusty cells. Daryl didn't answer.

"You ok?"

Daryl debated answering for a moment from where he sat on the floor of his cell. He'd pressed his back up against the bars of the door to face the concrete wall, unwilling to watch Merle shiver and puke, wracked with withdrawals in the cell across from him.

"… Yeah."

"You know I was… I thought I was gonna make it. I just couldn't. Couldn't bear the idea of her all laid out in a fucking casket."

Daryl picked at the imperfections in his second-hand dress slacks, "Weren't no casket."

Then, after a momentary paused, "Coulda stopped by the house."

"Shit Daryl, I ain't been sober in… I don't even know. Hell, between the crank and the… liquor…Vicodin. I can't even tell you what day it is - was."

"Yeah" Daryl allowed. He'd known. Of course he'd known. It was just shitty. He and Merle shared a unique bond. They were the shell-shocked veterans of a war that nobody else would ever realize had even taken place. The only way to live was to victimize, but there came a time when that didn't work, either. Nobody had been his advocate more than Merle, and for that Daryl would forgive Merle for being brittle and fractured. No matter how far he slipped, he would always forgive him.

The silence extended between them, Daryl pulling at threads and Merle trying to hold his stomach, muscles aching with each wave of nausea. It was late into the afternoon before the sound of the door drew both of their attentions. Brisk boot falls approached down the hallway until the town deputy appeared in the door of Daryl's cell.

"Daryl Dixon." He announced.

"What?" Daryl asked impertinently.

"Looks like it's your lucky day, Son. You're free to go." He announced.

"Not hardly." Daryl muttered, pulling himself to his feet as the jingle of keys approached the door.

"Well, you're not _entirely_ off the hook. I mean, using a fake ID, disturbing the peace... I'll have to cite you for those. No real need to hold you any longer though, I don't recon. Think we can let you go back home, so you can commence to settlin' your affairs." The officer lowered his head, removing his hat and tucking it into his chest earnestly.

"Was real sorry to hear about your loss."

Daryl stiffened, uncertain of the protocol for this unexpected display of sympathy. Particularly after he'd been running his mouth. After some consideration, a curt nod seemed the most appropriate response.

"Hey Rusty." Merle called out from across the hall.

"Yeah, don't start, Merle. You can go ahead and get comfortable. You went and got yourself into a big heap o' trouble."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a real bad sort." Merle quipped dismissively, "Listen, I want you to give Daryl my keys when you release him. Daryl, I got a little cash put away, you'll know where to look. You go on and take what ya need to clear this up. This one's on me."

Rusty began to object, but Merle cut him off immediately, "Look, do whatever you gotta do, man. Don't act like you pigs ain't got your tricks for when you want things to go your way. Maybe you spilled your damn coffee on the property inventory or whatever you call that stupid shit, I don't care. He's my brother. Don't just be sorry for his loss. That shit ain't worth a damn… Help him out."

Rusty shifted uncomfortably, then sighed in resignation, "I guess I can probably work somethin' out."

Daryl glanced at Merle uncertainly, who winced out a pained smirk, "See? Just like old times. Ol' Merle's got your back."

The ghost of a smile flickered on Daryl's grim face, "Man, you ain't got shit."

"Yeah? I see you got that starter situation figured out."

Daryl raised his eyebrows at his brother incredulously, "Starter…serpentine belt, fuel pump, transmission… spent a lot of time under that hood cursin' your 'charity', Bro."

Merle chuckled, "Well… guess I maybe misunderestimated things a bit. I'll get it right one of these days."

Daryl scoffed.

"Now git! Go on and get out of here 'fore I change my mind."

Daryl nodded and followed the deputy out containment area.


End file.
